Paladins Genesis
by Perfgen
Summary: Prequel to Paladins tells the story of Rick's arrest and Court-martial.


This is sort of a prequel to Paladins. It tells about Rick's arrest and court-martial in the aftermath of Bandar Deylam.

Explains a bit of Rick's later behavior, his relationship with Jordan Shaw, and why he started Orion

 **9/12/2001 New York City JFK Departure Lounge**

Elizabeth Houghton was an outstanding grandmother, the kind that families revere for generations. Now, sitting beside her husband in the departure lounge at Gate 27, she felt overwhelmed by a suffocating blanket of pain and suffering. At first she thought it was just the residual shock and horror from the day before. Everyone in the lounge could see the ravaged Manhattan skyline in the distance, and thin columns of smoke were still rising from what people were starting to call 'Ground Zero'. Of course the atmosphere in the lounge was somber. That, however, did not explain the tsunami of anguish that was swamping her grandmother antennae. Like all tsunamis, this one had an epicenter. He was sitting directly across from her.

The young man was slumped over, elbows resting on his knees. His short, reddish-brown hair was mussed, and his clothes looked like he had slept in them. The grandmother's code demanded that she reach out, and she could no more have resisted the impulse to comfort than Michelangelo could have walked away from a promising piece of marble. She reached over and covered his hands with hers. Startled, he looked up and met her gaze. She gasped softly. She knew that look. In her twenty-year career as a trauma nurse, she had seen it all too often in the aftermath of car crashes and shootings. It was the look of a person who had lost everything, a look so laden with grief and despair that she felt a prickle of tears.

"You've lost someone you love." It was both a statement and a question. The man gave an almost imperceptible nod.

"My fiancée and our baby," he said, his voice hoarse with pain.

"Were they in the Towers?" she asked gently.

He shook his head. "No, in the plane that crashed."

"The one in Pennsylvania?"

"Yeah."

"Are you going to the crash site?"

"Not yet, I'm going to a memorial service in D.C."

The gate attendant announced the flight and the passengers began to head for the door."They called my row," she said as she and her husband stood and gathered up their carry-on luggage. She reached down and gave the poor young man's hand one last squeeze before they walked away and disappeared down the jet way.

Rick Castle instantly missed the older woman's presence. Their brief conversation had been oddly comforting, and he marveled that she could convey so much empathy with a look or the light touch of her hand on his. But now she was gone and he was alone with his thoughts again.

####

Sergeant 'Angie' Angriff led his three-man team of Military Police briskly down the concourse. Their appearance and demeanor were, he knew, faultless—a credit to the military, the three of them were fit, clean-shaven, all spit and polish with knife creases in their uniforms as they moved forward with controlled, coordinated precision.  
In contrast, the Sergeant's mind seethed with resentment, incredulity and insult. This assignment—which had been delivered by his commanding officer with a chilling description of the consequences of failure—was the result of an ass-kicking that had traveled down the chain of command from the highest levels. It apparently had begun with the hysterical rantings of some soft, privileged congressional committee asshole in Washington, and the buck had been summarily dumped squarely in Angie's lap. And, adding insult to injury, he and his men had been ordered to stand back and do nothing more than observe their quarry. They could only approach the bastard if boarding for his flight was announced before an additional twelve MPs in full tactical gear had arrived from headquarters to take over. Well, fuck that! Arresting one unarmed coward for desertion? They could take him down bare-handed. And then take him apart with the other hand.

He'd already briefed Barton to deliver a takedown sucker punch on his signal. His orders meant there was no sense in taking chances. He only had one more year to make his twenty, and he wasn't going to lose his pension because some stupid jarhead escaped. His team was itching to make an example of this guy. They'd taken down everything from murderers to drug-crazed psychos without any so-called tactical team to back them up. This was a single, probably unarmed, solder, who was reportedly unaware that the boom was about to be lowered. Yeah, the guy had been a Recon Marine and some wuss in headquarters had said he was dangerous, but there was only one of him against Angie and his well-oiled mean green machine team of military cops. Angie prayed that boarding would be announced before the twelve-man team of MPs arrived. This could be fun.

Angie stifled a cheer when they arrived at the departure gate lounge just as boarding was announced. He left two of his men to block the entrance if necessary, and he and Barton approached the agent at the ticket counter. He turned to look at the man she pointed out, and then looked again. He saw a young man in civilian dress, hunched over with his hands clasped together so tightly that Angie could see his white knuckles from across the lounge. The guy's shoulders were trembling violently, shaking the row of cheap plastic seats where he sat, and he was muttering to himself. What a loser! At Angie's sharp gesture, his team converged on their prey. Angie stood in front of the still-seated man. Two team members took up positions to the target's right, and at the target's left. Barton positioned himself behind the subject's row of seats, obviously tensed and ready for the takedown. When the target still seemed unaware of them, they paused for a few seconds, waiting for him to respond to the sheer weight of their presence. In a similar situation, most suspects tried to run, or to talk their way out of trouble. A few would reach for a weapon or bluster and threaten. But no one had ever simply ignored them.

"Captain Richard Castle?" Angie asked, loudly enough that the remaining passengers looked up to see what was going on. The seated man did not respond. "Captain Castle," the MP repeated, "you are under arrest for cowardice, desertion and failure to obey orders. Come with us, please," and he reached out to take Rick's shoulder. Their suspect stood suddenly, crossing his arms and hunching over his abdomen as if in pain. Then he spoke, his gaze focused on something or someone beyond the room. His words were too soft for the MPs to hear clearly, but the gist was obvious. Captain Castle was in a highly distressed state of mind.  
Angie was horrified to see tears coursing down the man's face. Castle continued muttering, a little louder now. "What kind of a sorry-ass excuse for a man would let you get on that plane alone? I'm sorry Kyra, I'm so, so sorry." His entire body shook with violently suppressed emotion, this, too, rocking the composure of the veteran military cops.

Angie was getting increasingly uneasy. The orders concerning this man were to transport him directly to the brig, but the guy was clearly mentally unstable, and he needed to go to a psychiatric hospital, not a cell. Angie debated for several seconds about waiting for the backup team after all. He didn't like mental patients—they were even more unpredictable than the normal run of suspects, and therefore more dangerous.  
In any event, he debated a little too long.

Captain Castle shook his head violently, as if coming out of a trance, and his gaze focused on Angie. "Sergeant," he said, as if slightly puzzled by their presence. Behind them the agent called another row for boarding, and Rick started forward.  
The MP on his left brought his baton up and held it across Rick's chest while Angie addressed him formally, again.  
"Captain Richard Castle, I repeat that you are under arrest …"  
Rick held up his hand, and the MPs froze momentarily. "Sergeant, I'm going to board this flight. It is a matter of utmost importance to me. I will return on Sunday, and you can arrest me on whatever ridiculous charges you can concoct in the meantime. But right now, you need to get the hell out of my way." Angie nodded almost imperceptibly, giving Barton the signal to pounce. The MP struck suddenly, without warning, his baton swinging in a short, brutal arc, going for the quick knockout.

####

Captain Rick Castle somehow sensed the impending attack, and his forebrain instantly ceded control to the primitive reptile brain. And it was no ordinary reptile brain, but one which had been trained, tempered and tested in the crucible of combat. It mattered not a whit that he was outnumbered, unarmed and surrounded. This moment was Rick Castle's opportunity to do penance, and it beckoned irresistibly. The god of battles was giving him one last chance to fight for Kyra. One last chance to fight for their baby.

And fight he did. Castle struck like an enraged velociraptor, brutal and effective. He crouched suddenly, and he felt the rush of air as Barton's intended blow missed his head by just fractions of an inch. He spun, leg extended and swept the right side MP's legs out from under him. Rick wrestled the three-foot baton from his grasp as the man fell, and then he drove the tip into the MP's throat. It could easily have been a killing blow, but Rick had no desire to kill anyone, so he carefully moderated the force of his attack. The MP flopped helplessly onto the threadbare carpet, whooping for breath. Rick grunted in satisfaction. The downed MP would be out of action for several minutes - long enough for him to deal with the others. He sprang up, and the MP closing from the left met a back kick with his kneecap and crashed to the floor screaming in pain. Rick parried sergeant's overhead strike with the confiscated baton held horizontal in both hands, then swung the baton forward with his right arm using the left hand as a fulcrum for extra power. The blow thumped off the MP's helmet, stunning him momentarily. Barton swung his baton a second time only to find it spinning across the room as a circular parry twisted it out of his hands. Suddenly weaponless, he clambered over the seats to grapple with Rick, but a thrust to the face staggered him, and before he could recover, Rick stepped in, grabbed his wrist and executed an elbow lock with his other hand. He shifted his hip into the man and suddenly snapped forward from the waist, slamming the hapless MP onto the floor with a dislocated shoulder.

White-hot agony erupted in Rick's shoulder as Angie's roundhouse swing, reminiscent of Barry Bonds swinging for the cheap seats, smashed across his right shoulder blade. The impact pitched him forward, and he stumbled over a one of the fallen MPs. He rolled under a row of seats and so Angie's follow-up strike smashed harmlessly across a seat-back. Rick struggled to his feet with some difficulty, his benumbed right arm useless for the moment. The MP Sergeant dropped his baton and drew his sidearm. "On your knees you bastard," he spat viciously.

"Not going to happen," Rick responded matter-of-factly, still trying to massage some feeling into his arm and shoulder. "If you want me on my knees, you're going to have to come over here and make me."

"What if I just shoot you in the knee?" The MP rasped.

Rick took a slow half-step forward and the MP backed up an inch or so. Rick grinned, a velociraptor spotting a crippled duckbill kind of grin, and he took another half-step forward. The MP shifted aim, front sight settling on Castle's chest. Rick hazarded one more half step forward and Angie the Sergeant lifted one booted foot to inch backward again. Rick saw the MP's finger twitch infinitesimally as he started to squeeze the trigger before he was briefly distracted by the groans of his men, and he wondered if he had miscalculated…but the sergeant's foot planted itself squarely on the discarded baton. There was nothing at all graceful about the MP's flailing attempts to regain his balance when the baton rolled under his foot, and Rick closed the distance with three quick strides. A screaming roundhouse kick sent the gun flying across the lounge, and an overhand right cross ended the festivities.

Rick stood panting for a few seconds. This was by far the most strenuous exercise he had attempted since being wounded, and maybe he wasn't as recovered as he liked to believe. He quickly checked the MPs, none of their injuries were life-threatening, so he used each man's own cuffs to immobilize him. The remaining passengers fled down the concourse screaming that a mad gunman was loose in the airport. But by the time Castle turned back to the gate, the jet way door was closed, and the plane that would have taken him to Kyra was hastily backing away from the gate. He had failed her again. His bellow of despair echoed down the nearly empty concourse.

####

NYPD Emergency Services Unit Supervisor, Lieutenant Caitlin Harper led her squad toward Gate 27. The briefing she had just received from the Port Authority Police Captain, who had called in a hostage situation and asked for SWAT support, had been informative, but not particularly enlightening. She had a pretty good idea of what had happened at Gate 27, but it made no sense. Why was the subject having what appeared to be a mental breakdown in the departure lounge (not that there hadn't been a lot of that in the last twenty-four hours)? Why did the MPs attack the subject without any obvious provocation, and, bloody hell, how did one man take four professional military cops apart like so many Lego toys?

The bitter taste of acid scalded her throat as she reflected that this incident seemed to be the perfect opportunity for NYPD's first female Emergency Services Unit Supervisor to royally screw the pooch and validate all the shit she had received since her promotion just ten days ago. They reached Gate 26 without getting a visual on the subject, and she put Officers Jesick and Burns in cover, observing toward Gate 27. If the subject tried to break out, they would be able to stop him. Officer Gallardo set up his monitor, plugged into the terminal's surveillance system and the image from Gate 27 filled the screen. Caitlin waved over her second in command, Sergeant Bernardo Alvarez, and they studied the image together. The subject was moving among the fallen MPs and collecting their sidearms. Sergeant Alvarez stirred and took a breath to speak, but Caitlin made a subtle hand gesture, wait. "Gallardo, can you zoom in on one of the MPs?" she requested tersely.

"Yes, ma'am," he responded, and made a small adjustment. Caitlin and Sergeant Alvarez exchanged astonished looks.

"They're handcuffed!" he gasped.

"Yeah, and that means they're likely still alive. We need to be careful, but the first order of business is to get those guys out of there."

"What's he doing now?" Gallardo wondered and pointed Caitlin's attention back to the screen, where they could see the subject industriously disassembling the MPs' weapons and scattering the parts and loose ammo out into the open concourse.

"I'm guessing that means he either doesn't really want to shoot anybody, or he's a complete lunatic," Caitlin said.

"I'm going with B," the sergeant offered as the subject sat down, looked directly into the camera and made a "come here" motion with his right hand.

"I think he wants us to come get the MPs," the lieutenant observed.

"What're we going to do, ma'am?" Alvarez was poised to act.

A Port Authority officer trotted up to the Lieutenant and handed her a thick folder bound with blue tape. Extracting a Bench-made folding knife from her harness, Caitlin slit the tape and pulled out a thick sheaf of papers, which she then spread out on the ticket counter and perused intently. "Holy shit!"

"Care to share with the class, Lieutenant?" asked Gallardo.

"Our subject is Captain Richard Edgar Castle, USMC. He's currently on medical leave recovering from wounds suffered in action back in July." She paused for a second, took a deep breath and continued. "He spent four years in Force Recon and graduated with high honors from Ranger School."

"I guess that explains what happened to the MPs," Sergeant Alvarez observed wryly. "Poor bastards picked a fight with Rambo."

"Yep," Caitlin agreed, still reading. "Mother of God!" she blurted.

Sergeant Alvarez raised a quizzical eyebrow in response to her outburst.

"Listen to this; it's his list of decorations: four Purple Hearts, the Navy Cross, no less than four Silver Stars, and a Distinguished Service Cross. This guy is a freaking mega-war hero."

"What were the MPs after him for, ma'am?"

"Uhh… No! That can't be right."

"What, ma'am?" Gallardo asked, leaning forward.

"Disobedience to orders, cowardice and desertion." She stood abruptly and started peeling off her SWAT gear.

"What are you doing, Lieutenant?" Alvarez asked worriedly.

"I'm going to see if I can talk Captain Castle down before somebody gets hurt. If we must go, I'm sure we could take him, but he wouldn't go easy, and I don't want any of my guys to get hurt if it's not necessary."

"He's still got one of the MPs' Glocks, ma'am," Alvarez reminded her urgently.

"I know, I saw that." She turned and strode deliberately toward the next gate, feeling a bit naked without her vest and helmet.

"Captain Castle?"

Rick raised his head wearily as the woman who had spoken entered the lounge. He appraised her quickly. Grayish-green jumpsuit over a trim, athletic body. SWAT, his brain decided before he also noticed that she was unarmed and she was not wearing her vest. "'Bout time you showed up," he observed dryly.

The woman refused to acknowledge his barb. "Would you object if I get some of my people to transport the MPs out of here? They might need medical attention."

"Go ahead," he responded. Caitlin quickly turned to the camera to summon her men.

"They're not hurt bad," he added, squinting a little to bring her into focus, his glasses seemed to have gone missing during the fight. "A Lieutenant. Interesting."

"Why did you attack the MPs?" she asked while the handcuffed men were being removed by four of her officers.

"I didn't know that NYPD had any female SWAT team commanders."

"Only one, and only since two weeks ago Friday," she replied.

"Oh, to answer your earlier question? They started it."

"I'll give you that one, I saw the film. What were you saying to them right before they attacked?"

"I told them I was going to get on the plane," he said.

"Why did you need to get on the plane so badly?"

"If we're going to play twenty questions, maybe you should sit down. Not polite to make a lady stand."

Caitlin chuckled as she sat across from him. "Thanks...I think. Would you like some coffee or something?"

"Yeah, coffee would be good."

"Alvarez," she spoke into her throat mike, "see if you can scrounge up a couple of cups of coffee, black." Two clicks acknowledged her request. "Now then, why were you so determined to get on that plane?"

"Because of Kyra"

"Who's Kyra?"

"What If I just tell you the whole story from the beginning?"

"All right, Captain, whatever's most comfortable for you."

"I came to New York a couple of weeks ago to recover from some injuries. My sister lives here, and I was staying with her. My fiancée, Kyra, lived in California. She called me last Friday and said she was flying in on Saturday, and that she had something to tell me. It turns out the big news was that she was pregnant."

"Were you happy about that?" Caitlin asked.

"Ecstatic," he said with a sad smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Anyway, her flight back was yesterday morning."

Oh God, Caitlin thought, I know what's coming next.

"She wanted me to go back with her, said she had something to show me in California." "I told her it could wait and that I couldn't deal with her mother's blatant hostility and insults any longer. We fought in the airport, she begged me to go with her. I refused and practically pushed her onto the plane and watched them close the door." He paused, trembling again, and Caitlin was starting to regret having kicked the boulder down the hill. It had triggered an avalanche, and now it thundered toward them, rending and tearing all before it. "So when those bastards brought out their damn box cutters, there was no one to fight for her,"

Castle continued. "She was in the Navy, and they either noticed her dog tags, or her name on the passenger manifest showed her rank. She was one of the first killed, and no one fought for her. She called for me, she begged me to save our baby. She died alone, and I wasn't there. I could've saved her; I could've saved them all." He looked up, and she almost choked at the anguish in his eyes. "Lieutenant, I've trained for most of my life to defend the goddamned Constitution. I took an oath. 'Against all enemies,' I said." Fat tears rolled unheeded down his cheek, "but when it counted, I couldn't even defend my woman and our child."

"What happened today?" she asked when he had calmed somewhat.

"There is a memorial service in D.C. The airline was flying in family members. I was waiting for the flight, and I guess I'd convinced myself that going to that service would help me square it with her. Stupid, I know. But when the MPs showed up and prevented me from boarding, I felt like I was being given another chance to fight for her, and …well…you know."

Caitlin's radio squawked in her ear. There was some disturbance back at Gate 26, where the rest of her squad was gathered, and they needed her right away. She turned to the man opposite her, who had stood up when she did. "Captain Castle, I need you to come with me. You know if you keep this up somebody is going to get badly hurt.

"Maybe I don't care."

"I get that you don't care that you get hurt, but what about someone else?"

"No," he sighed. "I don't want anyone else to get hurt."

"So, will you come with me?"

"You're not going to cuff me?"

"Do I need to?"

"No, I'll behave."

"All right, let's go," Caitlin said, and led the way, her detainee limping along behind her.

There were twelve new MPs at Gate 26, accompanied by a naval officer, a commander, if she interpreted the rank insignia correctly. The MPs were in full riot gear, with body armor, helmets, batons and clear Lexan shields. The officer was seriously in the face of Sergeant Alvarez, screaming that the NYPD should get the hell out because the military had jurisdiction here.

Caitlin shoved Alvarez aside and verbally tore into the Naval Officer. He ignored her rant and waved the MPs forward. They advanced, seemingly unstoppable, prepared to roll right over the small cluster of NYPD officers to get to Rick. Caitlin protested his high-handed tactics vehemently, but the commander gave her a hard shove and pushed past her toward Rick. She bounced back up, incensed that this Pentagon puke would assault an NYPD police lieutenant on her own turf. But when she grabbed him by the arm, he smashed his fist into her face. In the seeming eons that it took her to fall, one thing was imprinted forever in her memory. In slow motion, she saw a human juggernaut take the naval officer by the throat before landing three jackhammer jabs and smashing the belligerent commander aside, dropping him like so many strands of overcooked spaghetti.

The MPs rolled right over the NYPD officers, and one aimed a vicious blow at the defenseless lieutenant. Defenseless that is until Rick took the blow himself, deflecting it so that the blow lost most of its power, before he was dragged into the melee. Caitlin shook off the effects of the sucker punch and allowed Sergeant Alvarez to help her up. "Where's Captain Castle?" she gasped as her breathing returned to normal. The sergeant cut his eyes toward the rugby scrum in the center of the concourse, where the MPs were still pounding and beating on something in the center of the pileup. "Damn, they'll kill him! Alvarez, give me your weapon." He wordlessly handed her the MP5, and she expertly unscrewed the suppressor and handed it back. Then, to his total astonishment, she ripped a thirty-round burst into the ceiling directly over the struggling mass of men.

Gradually, one by one, they stopped fighting. She almost lost it when she saw that most of her squad were was down with injuries, and that Captain Castle's' body looked remarkably like a large platter of steak tartar. The MPs, embarrassed now that the berserker moment had passed, were being herded into a far corner by her remaining men. And judging by the sounds she was picking up, half the emergency vehicles in the five boroughs were heading in her direction. "Where'd that damned Navy guy go?" Caitlin asked Alvarez in a fire-breathing fury, as soon as she noticed that the asshole was conspicuously absent. "He started this shit and I'm going to arrest his sorry ass for assaulting a police officer."

"He bugged out, Lieutenant. He came to during the melee and made a beeline for the exit."

"Go after him," Caitlin snarled. "I want him back here in handcuffs or in a body bag. Shoot him if you have to."

Alvarez nodded and trotted down the concourse in the direction he had seen the officer take. Caitlin was surprised when she saw him striding back toward her. He had been gone less than a minute, and he had something bundled in his arms. When he Alvarez reached her, he dumped the bundle on the floor and held up a small leather case. "I found these three gates down."

"What's in the case?" She asked.

Alvarez opened it so that it lay flat on his outstretched hand like a small book. The contents were three small black metal cylinders, each about the size of a cigarette. There was a small opening on one end, and a red button protruded slightly above the surface of the cylinder near the same end. He leaned forward and spoke to the Lieutenant, barely above a whisper. "I know what those these are ma'am."

"Yes?" Caitlin's eyebrows lifted inquiringly.

"They're used for assassinations; they use compressed CO2 to fire a microscopic pellet containing enough Botulism toxin to kill a victim within minutes. The KGB called them Black Widows."

KGB? Toxins? Assassination? Caitlin felt an Antarctic blast race through her veins; she looked down and recognized the bundle of fabric as a naval officer's uniform "He was an imposter?"

"Looks that way." Alvarez said. "I don't think Captain Castle was supposed to make it out of here alive."

"Damn!" She carefully made her way across the blood-slicked floor to Captain Castle's side. Kneeling, she realized he was painfully attempting to grasp her hand. "I wanted to go to her," he gritted out.

"Not today, Captain," Caitlin smiled through her tears. "We…er…I needed you today. Thank you for saving me. I guess in fighting for one woman, you fight for us all.

"Yeah." His head rolled limply to the side.

 **JAG Headquarters - Washington, D.C. October 21, 2001**

"All rise," the voice of the Sergeant-at-Arms pierced the bitter fog of outrage, denial, humiliation, and all-too-fresh grief that saturated Captain Castle's thoughts. The heavy wooden door at the front of the room opened, and members of the court-martial panel solemnly filed in and seated themselves behind the long conference table. Years of training and discipline propelled the captain to his feet and into a posture of attention.

One general, three colonels and an admiral arranged themselves and then, as one, stared stone-faced at the defendant. The trim, blonde defense attorney, immaculate in her dress uniform, knew precisely what that collective stare was intended to convey. It was a bid for dominance, a not so subtle declaration of who held the power in this room. She sensed that the young Marine captain standing rigidly at attention beside her was just about fed up with this whole bullshit court-martial charade. She understood her client well enough by now to know that they could convict him, sentence him and probably imprison him, but they would never defeat him; if there was any single word that captured the essence of Captain Rick Castle it would be 'indomitable'.

Evidence was not hard to find to support that characterization; his face was still showing the effects of the savage beating he had taken when he was arrested six weeks earlier. It had taken more than a dozen MPs to take him down, and then only after he had inflicted enough damage on his attackers that the ER doctor who treated them had innocently asked whether they had been in a plane crash. Now, she felt the titanic clash of wills that raged across the intervening space. Poor bastards. He broke them, as surely as the Athenian hoplites broke the Persian shield wall at Marathon; One by one the panel members looked down or away and thereafter avoided meeting his gaze.

There was nothing about his physical appearance that would lead one to believe that his mere presence would so affect the proceedings. Indeed, as far as outward appearances were concerned, Captain Castle was almost depressingly average. six foot, medium build and not likely to be tapped as a spokesperson for men's grooming products. Instead, the power of his presence derived from an almost tangible aura of competence, calm, and confidence that heartened his friends, and infuriated his foes. In the many interviews she had conducted with Marines who had served with him, she found a recurring theme. If you were going to walk through the valley of the shadow of death, then Rick Castle was the man you wanted to be walking point.

"Be seated," the Sergeant-at-Arms said, and everyone in the room resumed their seats. Only the captain at the defendant's table and his attorney remain standing. The Colonel serving as presiding judge of the court-martial cleared his throat and consulted the single sheet of paper lying on the table before him. Then, after a sharp intake of breath he spoke. "Captain Richard Edgar Castle, United States Marine Corps, on the charge of willfully disobeying the lawful orders of your superior officer, the Court Martial panel finds you guilty". The captain swayed briefly, pressed his lips together, raised his chin, and stiffened his back. He would not give them the satisfaction of provoking a reaction. Besides, it could be the worst was yet to come. The presiding officer coughed quietly and continued speaking. "On the charge of desertion and cowardice in the face of the enemy, the Court Martial panel finds you guilty."

After this utterance an almost palpable sense of dread raced through the room, radiating outward from the Marine officer and his attorney. The presiding judge rapped his gavel. "It is currently 11:37. The court-martial will be in recess until 13:30, at which time it will reconvene for sentencing." "All rise." The Sergeant-at-Arms ordered. The presiding judge and the panel members rose from their seats and disappeared through the door held open by an aide. Just before exiting, three of the officers glanced obliquely at the defendant with obvious smirks of pleasure and victory.

Captain Castle turned to meet the sergeant who approached to escort him back to the holding room; a brief, bitter smile quirked the corners of his mouth upward. "At least you're not carrying leg irons,"

"You're an officer and a gentleman, sir. Besides, from what I've heard, if you really wanted to escape, leg irons wouldn't be much hindrance". Turning to go, Captain Castle's gaze swept the faces of the small group of people who remained in the room. All of them Marines, and each had testified on his behalf. He gave these Marines a nod, a nonverbal "thank you" for their integrity and courage. Privately he said a heartfelt prayer that none would pay any greater price for their loyalty than they already had.

He focused on a young woman sitting in the first row directly behind the defense table. Her elbows rested on her knees with her face buried in her hands. She raised her head, soft brown eyes glistening with tears locked onto his. He thought of the rules that prohibited contact with witnesses until the case was over. Damn them and their rules. He halted in front of her, with barely an arm's length separating them. His gaze lingered on the polished silver bars of a first lieutenant and the wings of gold of a Marine aviator. No one in the history of the Corps had ever worn them with greater honor. "How are you feeling?" he asked softly.

"Horrible. How else would I be feeling?"

"Are you going to be okay?"

"Maybe, but not anytime soon." Another tear escaped and trailed down her cheek.

"Don't cry for me," he whispered, looking away.

"Crying seems inevitable given the circumstances," she responded with a bit of her normal spark. "Who should I cry for then? Kyra? Your unborn baby? The fact that they didn't give you time to visit the crash site or attend the memorial service before arresting you?"

"Cry for the Corps," he growled. "And for our country"  
The sergeant prodded his back, a not-so-subtle indication that he should keep walking. He passed her, leaving one last message.

"Semper Fi, Tori."

"Semper Fi, sir."

His small entourage of defense counsel and escort passed through the door at the rear of the room and disappeared down the hallway leading to the holding area.

The concern, pride and approval in the Captain's voice had nearly broken Lt Tori Ellis, but she would not crumble. Not here, not now. She was here for the captain, and she would not shame him by appearing any weaker than he. The unthinkable, monstrous injustice underway in this courtroom was staggering, and she would not disturb his outward calm by doing anything to remind him that while even as this injustice unfolded, an even greater loss had taken everything he had to live for. How could it be happening?

Actually, she knew how it had happened. She'd been there, an active participant in the crescendo of disaster that culminated in this travesty. Yes, she knew how, but why? That was the question that troubled her thoughts by day and haunted her dreams when she managed to sleep. She hugged herself tighter, painfully reliving the events of Bandar Deylam. They replayed themselves with IMAX clarity in her mind.

Tori Ellis felt a hand on her shoulder, firmly squeezing and gently shaking at the same time. She shook off the visions and look up into the concerned eyes of Gunnery Sergeant Hector Fernandez. "You okay, ma'am?" he spoke softly, just above a whisper.

She ventured a short choppy nod. "Yeah, Gunny. I just zoned out for a second" "More like ten minutes ma'am, begging the Lieutenant's pardon," he offered.

The tears started again. "He should be getting a medal, Gunny," she ground out in anguish, "not getting dragged in to some kangaroo court, lied about, and convicted of cowardice!" She clenched her fists until her nails began to draw blood. Somehow the pain helped her to regain control. "He could get twenty years in Leavenworth, and the way this sorry excuse for a court martial has gone, he probably will!"

"He'd want us to be strong," Fernandez answered, even though he realized it wasn't the most original thing to say under the circumstances. "He'd want us to act with honor and fight for the truth, and whatever the court decides today, that's exactly what we are going to do."  
Tori reached up with her right hand and gently squeezed the Sergeant's hand on her shoulder. "Strength and honor," she breathed thoughtfully. "The centurion's oath. Remember the movie Gladiator, Gunny? Strength and honor—even in the face of betrayal, strength and honor".

####

Rick Castle entered the holding room and moved across to the window to look out over the city, keeping his mind firmly fixed on the proceedings rather than the grief and loss hovering at the edges. He heard his JAG defense attorney enter and close the door behind her. She cleared her throat tentatively, probably unsure as to whether she wanted to face him. He made the decision for her as he pivoted slowly to face her, looking deep into her blue eyes. She looks like hell.

She had literally taken his breath away two months earlier when she entered the brig conference room for their first meeting. Tall, blonde, blue eyes, ample but not opulent curves; she'd made the uniform of a Navy lieutenant commander look about as attractive as humanly possible. Then she'd conducted the initial interview. And as she left the brig, he had mentally vowed to collect and burn every book of blonde jokes he could get his hands on, because it was clear that Lt. Commander Jordan Shaw was one incredibly smart individual.

"I did my best, Rick," she spoke sadly. "I'm sor—"

"Don't you dare say you're sorry!" He spoke with enough heat that she straightened and returned his gaze. "You fought like a tigress." He took four quick strides toward her, catching her biceps in his powerful hands with enough force that she gasped, her face looking more surprised than frightened. "That low-life, bottom-feeding piece of pond scum of a prosecutor," he continued, carefully easing his fierce grip, "will probably need counseling for PTSD after the thrashing you gave him in closing arguments. You did everything that could be done, but it was a setup. Just like the Iranian operation, it was all scripted in advance. The operation was supposed to fail miserably; instead, we managed to fight our way out and kick some ass in the process. This whole asinine 'court-martial' is punishment for screwing up their plan."

"The word is not 'plan,' Rick. The correct term is 'conspiracy,' and if you had told me a year ago that the upper echelons of the U.S. military would connive to cause the deaths of hundreds of American Marines and do such irreparable damage to the reputation of the Corps and the country, I would have had you declared non compos mentis and locked in a padded cell."

"Could still happen" he replied, still looking deeply into her eyes. "This is not over, not by a damn sight and—" The door opened suddenly, without warning, admitting the JAG prosecutor, a Navy Captain, as well as the Sergeant-at-arms.

Rick Castle released his grip on Jordan's arms and turned to face the two. "Well, speak of low-life, scum-sucking bottom feeders, and …"

"Shut up, Castle," the officer snarled contemptuously. "One more word out of you, and—"

Jordan moved quickly to stand between the prosecutor and her client. All he needed was an assault charge to round out his rap sheet. "What exactly are you here for, Captain?" she asked as she gently pushed on Rick's chest, encouraging him to take a step back.

"I'm here to make an offer that this person," the prosecutor's tone oozed contempt, "would be well advised to accept."

"Since I am Captain Castle's legal advisor, I suggest you give me the details of this offer."

"The president is willing to extend clemency to your client, but there are certain…ahhh…stipulations," the prosecutor sneered.

"Wait a minute. You said 'clemency,' not 'pardon.' Why would he…"

"Because clemency can be revoked, Commander. A pardon cannot. Should your client fail to live up to the stipulations, he can still spend the rest of his life in prison."

Commander Shaw met her client's gaze, her eyebrow quirked upward quizzically. "Hear him out?"

Rick gave her an almost imperceptible nod. "Nothing to lose!"

Turning back to the prosecutor, the Commander asked drily, "Would you care to share those stipulations with us, or are you expecting us to just sign up sight unseen?"

The prosecutor ignored her sarcasm and proceeded to enumerate. "First, Captain Castle will resign from the Marine Corps. The records of this court martial and his entire personnel file will be sealed for fifteen years. Second, he will have no contact of any kind with any of the crew of the Osprey. Third, he will not disclose his military service or any details of the operation to anyone whatsoever for fifteen years. Fourth, he will make no attempt to investigate the events surrounding the operation in any manner whatsoever."

"Is that all?" Jordan wanted so badly to wipe the supercilious, nauseating smirk off the man's face. "No arms or legs, no vital organs?"

"Take it or leave it. Oh, and by the way, there is an additional stipulation that involves you, commander. You will also resign from the Navy, which of course implies that you will leave the JAG corps permanently."

"NO!" Rick launched himself across the room only to have his chest meet two shoulders: one hard and unyielding and belonging to the Sergeant-at-Arms, and one a little softer but no less unyielding.

"Rick, don't." She spoke softly, but firmly.

He ground out each word. "I won't let you throw away your life because of me. I won't!" She glared at the other two occupants of the room as she grabbed a fistful of Rick's tunic and pulled him to the farthest corner of the room, where she spoke

quietly but forcefully. "Listen to me, Rick. This is the only chance we have of ever finding out what is going on and making the bastards pay. You can't accomplish anything if you're behind bars. Don't you see?"

He was not quite ready to surrender. "But your—"

"Listen to me!" she hissed. "Do you really think I could have any kind of career in the Navy after this? Do you think I want to be in the Navy after this? What I want is to personally put a bullet through the brain of the sick bastard behind this, and if you get locked away for the next twenty years, then they've won. Rick , we can't let them win!"

"But…" he tried again.

Jordan, decided to change tactics. "Rick, what's that saying by the Chinese guy, Sun Tzu or whatever, that you quote all the time? 'Enemy advances…'"

"'We retreat,'" he continued, seeing where she was going. "'Enemy retreats, we advance.' And it was Mao, not Sun Tzu"

"I'm sure it was." She met his gaze steadily, conveying her determination. "Now, are you with me?"

"Vengeance," he whispered.

"To the last drop of blood." The Commander turned to the prosecutor and nodded.

"We accept." The JAG captain turned and stalked haughtily from the room. Just as the door clicked shut, Jordan took a couple of quick steps, opened the door, and stepped into the hallway outside. "Captain, a quick question, if you please?

"Yes?"

Jenna chose to ignore the studied insult of not addressing her by her rank. "What about the others? What about Captain Castle's crew?"

The JAG officer waved his hand in dismissal, as if the people being discussed were of no particular import. "Corporal Peterson's injuries will not allow him to return to active duty. He will be given a medical discharge. Lieutenant Ellis and Sergeant Fernandez will be transferred to the Coast Guard. They're willing to take almost anyone that's breathing. Satisfied?"

"More or less," she said, then turned and brushed past the guard and reentered the holding room. "What was that about?" Rick looked at her quizzically as she entered.

"I was asking about your crew, what was planned for them."

"And…"

"About as good as could be expected, I'll tell you later."

"Jordan," he asked, "why do you think they made this offer? Why not just lock me away for the rest of my life?"

"I'm not sure," she admitted ruefully, "but in some ways, it makes the president look compassionate and avoids making a martyr out of you. The fifteen-year gag order works in their favor as well. By the time it expires, this bunch of yahoos will be out of office and living somewhere that has no extradition treaty with the U.S. Maybe they figure that by then you'll have dropped the whole thing and moved on."

"Not bloody likely."

"But," she gave him a predatory grin, "it does give us time to figure out what this was all about and put everything in place to take them down."

"So what's our next move?"

"We need to go off the radar for a while and let them forget about us. Dean Harwell at Georgetown has been after me for a couple of years to come teach at the Law School. I think I might just take him up on it. What about you, Rick?"

"Interestingly enough, the guy I did my PhD with at Cal Tech called me last week. He just got the job of Dean of Arts and Sciences at the University of South Florida, and he wanted to know if I was interested in a faculty position in their physics department."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him I'd think about it if I could continue the research I was doing for my dissertation."

"And...?

"He said that continuing my research was a condition of employment and that it had the potential to put the University on the map, so to speak."

"So...?"

"So, I need to take some time off and process everything that's happened in the last couple of months. I mean it's only been six weeks since Kyra and the baby were killed, and I've been in custody the whole time. Damn it Jordan, they wouldn't even let me go to the funeral! I don't think I'm in any condition right now to make life-changing decisions.

"What about the job?"

"Dean Pritchard said he didn't need an answer right away, so I'm going home to North Carolina and stay for a while, until I can put my life back together."

"Sounds like a plan."

####

Tori noticed that the recess was almost over and that the onlookers were filing back into the room and resuming their seats. The court was called to order and the panel entered and took their seats. At the presiding officer's signal, Rick Castle and Jordan Shaw entered and stood at attention in front of the board.  
"Richard Edgar Castle," the presiding officer intoned solemnly, "being found guilty of disobedience to orders, cowardice and desertion in the face of the enemy, you are hereby sentenced to twenty years in the Federal prison at Fort Leavenworth Kansas."

Knowing that they were coming in no way lessened the impact of the deadly words on the friends of the officer standing so rigidly before them all. Tori in particular felt as if her soul had been ripped entire from her body, leaving nothing within her but the cold vacuum of space. The presiding officer spoke again. "However, the President of the United States has been gracious enough to grant clemency to the accused. His sentence will be reduced to immediate discharge from the United States Marine Corps, to be stripped of all rights and privileges appertaining thereto. Such sentence to be carried out immediately." The Sergeant-at-Arms stepped forward holding his hands out, palms up. Rick removed his tunic with its insignia, badges and decorations, carefully folded it, and placed the garment on the outstretched hands. Then he turned and walked out of the courtroom, looking neither to the right nor to the left.


End file.
